Welcome to Sandy Lake, the largest and best-equipped of the 30 remote First Nations that dot Ontario's Far North.

SANDY LAKE FIRST NATION—Bread: $5.49 for a loaf of fairly fresh white.

Apples: $8.72 for a package of six.

Oranges: $7.52 for a package of four.

Milk: $3.39 for a litre of 2 per cent.

Kraft cheese slices: $9.29 for a package of 16.

Baby formula: $5.59 for a 385-millilitre can.

Apple juice: $8.95 for a 2-litre can.

Potato chips, pop and candy: a few cents higher than in southern Ontario.

Welcome to Sandy Lake, the largest and best-equipped of the 30 remote First Nations that dot Ontario's Far North. We've just taken a tour of the Northern Store, which stocks everything from food to furniture.

A stroll through the grocery section goes a long way toward explaining why people in the northernmost third of the province can't afford to follow Canada's Food Guide, fix their dilapidated houses or make ends meet.

Sandy Lake, located 1,000 kilometres northwest of Thunder Bay, is fortunate compared to most First Nations communities. It has running water and electricity. It has its own high school, elementary school, police detachment, hockey arena and radio station. It has a nursing station with up-to-date medical equipment.

Its human infrastructure is equally strong. It has a dynamic young chief and a dedicated band council. Everybody in the community of 2,500 knows – and cares about – everybody else. Children are cherished and the elderly are treated with dignity. The entire band pitches in to help families going through hard times.

But that is not what first greets the eye of a fly-in visitor.

The prefab houses provided by Indian Affairs are tiny and ramshackle. Even the new ones look rundown. More than half are wrapped in plastic to withstand the wind and cold. People's yards are littered with the rusting hulks of old vehicles.

The sprawling 44-square-kilometre community is linked by a network of rutted dirt roads that turn to mud when it rains.

The nursing station is enshrouded in scaffolding. Its walls are rotting from mould. Most of the houses also have mould.

Both schools are undergoing repairs because their roofs leak.

I was a guest in a typical home, occupied by an elderly couple and their 20 grandchildren. It consisted of a cramped living room, a kitchen, two small bedrooms and a bathroom. The walls were water-stained and buckling in some places. Most of the furniture was broken. Toys and clothes were strewn everywhere. It was oppressively stuffy.

The patriarch, who could no longer walk, was seated in an armchair in front of the television. The older kids lolled on the front stoop smoking. The younger – except for a bright-eyed, curious 3-year-old – hid from view.

It was hard to imagine where they all slept and easy to imagine what would happen to the flimsy plywood structure if a couple of embers from the wood stove landed in the wrong place.

What I learned later put the scene in perspective. The unemployment rate is about 90 per cent (no one does an official count). There is no income-generating activity, other than the store, a couple of gas pumps and a bit of fly-in fishing and hunting.

The diabetes rate is one of the highest in the world. OxyContin and Percocet use are growing alarmingly. Adolescent suicide is a constant worry.

"The biggest problem is that there are no jobs for our young people," said Chief Adam Fiddler. "We emphasize the importance of education, but they graduate and then what?"

He went to Thunder Bay, earned a diploma in television broadcasting and got a job at the CBC in that city. But when he was asked to return to run for the chief's position a year ago, he did not hesitate. "I had to come home. I wanted my children to grow up here.

"It's the land," he explained. "The connection is spiritual."

He understands why many families, deeply scarred by the church-run, government-funded residential schools of the last century, are unwilling to send their children away. He hopes his children will decide to stay, or come back.

Fiddler is acutely aware of the need for economic development in Sandy Lake. He can envisage the shape it would take: ecotourism, mineral development and the spinoffs that would result. But he is adamant that the lake and land must be protected and the community must be convinced that the benefits outweigh the costs.

That is not the case now. "Our people are reluctant because of the past," Fiddler explained. In the 1930s, there was a gold rush in northwestern Ontario. Prospectors poured into the region. One company opened a mine on Favourable Lake, just south of the community. It extracted thousands of tonnes of ore. When the gold was depleted, the miners vanished.

"They ruined the land and polluted the water," Fiddler recounted. "They made millions but First Nations people were left with scraps."

Many of the elders have bitter memories of that era. Their descendants all know the story. It will take time to build a case for mineral exploration, Fiddler said. He will not rush the process or allow outsiders to stake claims on his people's traditional lands.

This pace might seem incomprehensible to mining executives, politicians and Canadian taxpayers imbued with the belief that material wealth trumps the environment, family life and community spirit. But the chief will not bend to external pressure. His mandate is to do what is best for his people.

To those who look carefully, the precursors of a better future are visible. A few homes, such as Fiddler's log house, are sturdy and well-suited to northern conditions. A few businesses such as Wasaya Airways, which serves Sandy Lake and dozens of other remote communities, are owned by First Nations. The chiefs of the Nishnawbe Aski territory – the 30 bands scattered across Ontario's North – meet regularly and work together. Links are being forged with voluntary organizations in southern Ontario that are willing to help First Nations improve the lives of their people according to their wishes and values.

Despite the staggering poverty and the massive challenges, there are grounds for hope.

First Nations are willing to change. What they need are governments they can trust and allies who will work with them to find their own solutions and walk with them when the going gets tough.

Next: A promising partnership

Carol Goar's column appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

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